Stay Hard
by The Weaver Atropos
Summary: Everyone's talking about the youngest Curtis brother...about how he's not as gentle; how he's not as poetic...about how he doesn't seem to be as sweet as Pony. There's a reason, of course. And he's not going to let it go so easily (don't be mislead by


Stay Hard 

One-shot

8-21-03 (7 PM-10PM)

**Comments:**  Urm…just read—it's a weird fic…

He didn't like it.

Ponyboy Curtis didn't like the fact that his brother, Darry, had confined him to their less than cozy home for the weekend.  Even less did he like the fact that while everyone else was out playing football in the blazing sunlight, he was inside…brooding.

That was something that came naturally to him—brooding, that is.  Ever since…well ever since _that_ happened, he wasn't quite up to having much fun anymore.  Being happy seemed like an insult to both Johnny and Dallas' memories.  Pony shook his head.  He guessed Darry _had_ the license to punish him when he saw it fit…but still, Ponyboy didn't like giving up that kind of control to anyone; even if it _was_ his brother.  

Tapping his pencil insolently against the lined sheets of his Marble Composition notebook, the young Greaser stifled a yawn.  It was ironic, to say the least.  Years ago, the mere reminiscence of his two deceased friends would've sent him into an overwhelming fit of tears.  Now?  Now it just seemed like a fact of life—a hindrance, yes, but a common one.

Ponyboy smiled bitterly.  Yes sir, he was quite indifferent to death.  As a matter of fact, ever since he had been exposed to so much of it, he had been a bit reckless with his own life.  Pony figured that if he were to die, he might as well go with a spark.  Just like Johnny and Dal.  One died heroically—the other died at his own will.  To Pony, both their deaths were significant.  They both went out with a 'bang.'

Feeling himself chuckle slightly at his unintended pun, the young man ran calloused fingertips through his greasy hair, stretching a bit against the back of his chair.  He wanted to go out with a bang as well.  Leave a mark, so to speak.  Which would explain why he was currently sitting at his desk, _brooding_ on such a sunny day.  Once his brothers had encountered the newer much more 'crude' Ponyboy, they had decided they really didn't like him much.  Or at least Darry had.  Sodapop had been a bit more comprehending.  

At the time, Darry's reaction had been amusing.  Pony vaguely recalled having actually chuckled lightly in front of the man.  Not that it had been a good move—that had only sent Darry spewing into a fit of lectures coupled with a few expletives here and there thrown in for variety.  Glory had his brother been opposed to the whole idea, which of course, being the contradictional teen that he was, had only fueled him to keep going down the path he was.  Which, on another note, was one of self-destruction.

He wasn't quite up to doing drugs yet, no, that wasn't his style—partly due to Soda's coaxing.  The sensitive eighteen year old had understood his sudden need for space, and had imposed on him only a desire to remain careful.  At least marginally so, given what Pony had started to do for kicks.  

Now a firm, supple-bodied sixteen year old, Ponyboy had—as his brother once warned him he would—discovered girls…and glory did he ever have fun with them!  A thin smile flitted across the boy's lips at the thought.  He was nowhere near being as gorgeous as Sodapop, but he was good-looking, and that air of recklessness and cruelty about him certainly helped to draw in the _other_ girls who were much more interested in what he had to offer.  Sexually, that it.  In a few words, Ponyboy Curtis had become the spitting image of his ill-fated mentor, Dallas Winston.  Ever since the night he'd warned him to 'stay hard', Pony had taken it to heart.  And, much unlike the advice offered by his timid friend, 'stay hard' had stuck much more than the feeble 'stay gold.'

Romanticism had no place in the Greaser reality.  And while it had seemed rather appealing at the tender age of fourteen, two years in the unsheltered environment that was the lower-class world had altered his views.  Staying gold, to say simply, was a recipe for pain and disaster.  At least with the other motto, one had the guarantee of living—and staying out of a generous amount of fights that didn't pertain to him.  Not to mention that were ridiculous to be involved in to begin with.  

Pony boy distantly remembered a time when he would've delivered a passionate argument on having a partner based on love.  Glory!  A dark smile deposited itself on his pink lips.  That was hardly his philosophy now…Absently, the boy wondered whether that notion would've changed with time regardless of what'd happened to Johnny and Dallas.  He shrugged a bit.  It was certainly something to think about.  

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Pony pondered at the likelihood of him turning out the way he had.  Granted, he had always imagined himself as being the one that would 'save his poverty-stricken family.'  A bit too self-assured, to say the least.  But he had honestly believed it…at one point.

School just wasn't as important anymore.  It had been his life before—to a certain extent—but now there were more important things to deal with, what with girls having made an appearance, and all.  Not that they were all that important to him, either.  A few years back, when all the guys—excluding both he and Johnny, who were at the time too young to talk about those kind of things—had been talking about girls, the idea of the broads on greaser territory being too airheaded had sprung up.  Steve had, of course, gallantly defended Evie, as had Soda, but neither could deny that they _did_ give easy…or at least easier than the Socies would.  Hell, even the middle-classed girls were more decent than their lot.  

And for a while, it had been all right.  Pony was just as fine with them not having much of a brain, as it meant he'd be getting his fill all the faster.  He had been at that point in his hormonal youth where, the more he got, the less he cared..  If the girl succumbed to him quickly enough then, great—it'd been a catch, and if she didn't…well then, he'd just wasted his efforts and felt it wasn't quite worth it.  But that had gotten old fairly quickly.

Pony had just never much gauged the importance of a girl who held back on his advances, and despite his current state of 'destruction,' had somewhat reverted back to his old self and those old times in which he thought the best thing in a girl was her intelligence…her self-worth.  He had to admit that wooing a girl that was all too aware of what was being done, and holding back on it, was all the more enticing than one who gave in too quickly, not even giving him the fun of the chase.

And he _thrived_ on the thrill of the chase.  Which was why he'd loved track so much.  All that running, it helped clear his mind—helped him forget everything that was going on…which explained Sodapop's worry when he'd been dropped from the team, having missed enough practices to get him expulsed for his lack of commitment.  Not that it mattered anymore.  He used the free time his track slot offered on other things.  

Chewing on the eraser of his pencil idly, Ponyboy kicked off his shoes and propped his feet indolently atop his desk.  Other things.  Girls for one…but those weren't as interesting anymore.  They weren't the mystery they'd been when he'd embarked on the journey to 'make them bow down to him.'  They did that all too easily and willingly for his liking.  What other things, then…?

Well, there was the gang, which—having lost two of its members—was coming to be more known for its temperamental 'leader.'  Not that he was the leader.  No, he certainly didn't think so.  But he did _act_ like it.  Ordering people around.  Deciding where they'd go…who they'd fight.  Just like Dallas had.  And why was that?  Because he'd heeded the other's advice.  "Stay hard…" the words rung constantly in his mind like a mantra.

It hadn't been all that hard to do, staying hard.  He'd had a fine tutor in that department.  Not that his tutor was particularly aware that he had been so.  No, Tim Shepard had little idea that the previously introspective Curtis brother had drawn inspiration to become what he had based on what he saw from him.  Every day, after school—when he had still bothered to attend—he would hang around Jay's and study the older hood, taking in the language, the gestures…everything…

And then, come night, he would mosey over to Buck's place, slipping in frequently enough to be considered part of the crew despite his age.  Just like Dallas had.  But he had a different purpose when he came to Buck's, and that was to watch Tim work the broads.  Pony took in, rather like a sponge, the entire process of courting a female—and all the dilemmas that came with them—from scrutinizing Tim's every move.  Not that the latter knew.  Ponyboy suspected the Shepard leader would knife him into twenty pieces if he'd ever found out.  Hell, he'd even managed to eye in on him in the bedroom to see how they entire thing really worked out, eventually learning the idiosyncrasies of it all.  Not that he had learned _everything_ from just watching.  He'd had his own stints at Merill's, too.  

After a while, his constant loungings there had caught the eye of more than one Greaser girl.  He had, somewhat unconsciously and much to his merit, adopted Tim's swagger from so much inspection, and his dexterity when it came to words.  He had, in essence and rotundity, become the spitting image of the passed Dallas Winston.  Needless to say, his over confident attitude—still not quite real as it was a farce—had drawn in a share of women.  And to say he'd been a Don Juan to them all wouldn't be accurate.  

He'd been clumsy at first, stumbling in that way young virgins do, but his eagerness had redeemed for that easily enough.  The women found him attractive—alluring in his virginal prowess.  They were all but complacent in teaching him the logistics of it all…they _wanted_ the sexy, naïve greaser to be all the more competent in bed…they wanted _another_ Dallas Winston.  

Eventually though, he'd learned the basics, judging by each broad's reaction how and what buttons to press to get the right result from them all.  And soon, he came from being the watcher, to the one being watched.  He'd had enough successful encounters with women for them to begin to spread the word amongst themselves….and spread it they did.  _That Curtis brother may be a doll—the one at the DX, but that other…he's got the whole package!_

News of his skipping school and volatile attitude, when it came to other Greasers, only helped to further his appeal to other women.  They _liked_ a dangerous man—farfetched as the idea was to him.  

Soon, not only had the female population of Greasers noticed him, but he was beginning to build a reputation amongst the males, as well.  They had all learned by then, one way or another, that Ponyboy Curtis was no longer the sweet, poetic youth he had once been…They had learned he was _not_ one to be messed with.  And, surely, shortly enough, he had become more involved with Tim, slipping away from his gang of friends and friendly fights, and into an atmosphere more attuned with traitors and crude rumbles, fact which, had Darry known, would've drove him mad.  Not that it'd made a difference.

Pony smiled devilishly at the thought.  He could only imagine his brother's face if he knew all he'd done.  By some _odd_ string of idealism, Darry somehow fathomed that his younger brother was still much the virgin when it came to broads…or alcohol…or heaters, for that matter.   But at that point he wouldn't've cared even if Darry _had_ known…Being in Tim's circle was too much fun, and now Pony had an inkling of how tumultuously exhilarating Dally's life had been.

Tim was quite the indulgent leader when one was on his good side.  For one reason or another, Pony had always taken him to be a barbaric fiend but, after nearly two years of being in the man's presence, he had a slight idea of why Dally had never been quite afraid of the man.  It had been Tim Shepard that had taught him—after some of his futile bouts with women—the entire act of sex.  He'd spouted off minute information—where to find condoms…the best way to go about the entire thing…what _not _to say to ruin the moment…Pony'd been a gifted charmer, true, but he'd have taken a much longer time to learn the tricks of the trade had Tim not had input.

Tim had also been partially responsible for his introduction to alcohol.  He had never liked the thing—the way it tasted, and the hangovers it produced early the next morning…but, he had to admit that after a few months, he started having a liking for the substance.  Smoking…well, he had always smoked, so that wasn't much out of the ordinary.  Oh, and Tim had taught him how to fight.  

Granted, Pony was no wimp when it came to rumbles, but it hadn't always been that way.  He had, for one reason or another, always upheld a sense of chivalry against his opponent.  Always stopping if the other was too bad off—offering a ridiculous hand for the other to stand when the fight was over.  But even if he _hadn't_ offered that hand, Pony had always been too particularly polite when it came to a fight. He had never believed in playing dirty—in 'jumping a person' for example—but all that had changed with Tim, and with good reason.  Why should Shepard want a wuss on his gang that couldn't even decently beat up a captured Soc?  He wouldn't.  Which was why Pony had taken to Tim's brainwashing on the subject.  

Thinking back on it, Ponyboy probably owed Tim more things than he could count.  The older man wasn't _entirely_ out to corrupt him.  Pony's eyes flickered momentarily with amusement.  He'd been there for him when he'd been in trouble, too.  There had been that time Pony'd been caught shoplifting at the old lady's store on the corner of Prospect…and who had been there to bail him out?  Certainly not Darry, or Sodapop—not that they could've since they hadn't known—but Tim Shepard.  He'd caused a grand scene, a diversion in a sense, until Ponyboy had run far enough.  Then, there was the first time he'd been jailed—well not _jailed_ exactly, since he was still a minor, but he _had_ been detained…and Tim had been there to bail him out—though not exactly with money.

It was then that he'd become aware of just how similar to Dallas he was becoming.  Always the temperamental ladies' man.  Always the loyal gang member.  The drinker and smoker…the shoplifter…the one who died under the dim light of a streetlight, shot senseless by dastardly police officers.  Not that Pony didn't believe Dally'd deserved it.  He hadn't been  very intelligent to pull out a gun, however unloaded it was, in front of police officers, though he _did_ find the inputted effort gallant.  There went that fleeting smile again.  Another tally to his list of similarities to Dallas.  That dark grin of his.

Regardless, Ponyboy was aware of where his little train of thought was leading up to.  It was going in one big circle, heading back to why he was sitting where he was…again, at his desk, glaring at his brothers playing football.   And that was something he'd rather not think about, for it meant another journey through the path he'd decided not to travel down ever again.

"Damned doll."

Shaking his head in mild irritation, Ponyboy practically growled at the memory of that girl.  She made his blood boil.  She'd been the one responsible for everything.  Brainless broad.  Though he knew it had been partly his fault, what with him bringing her to his house.  He'd brought her into his room—still shared with Soda, much to his chagrin—and divested her of her clothing easily enough.  It would've been fine if she hadn't started screaming like a little girl, moaning his name a bit too ostentatiously for it to be realistic.  Furthermore, his name being shrieked out was hardly diligent, what with him being the only one in entire Tulsa bearing it.  Alarmed, Sodapop—who had reportedly run 3 blocks to get there—barged into the room, eyes wide and looking ready to save a murdered brother.  Behind him, Darry had followed, along with Steve, Two-Bit…and, of all people, Evie.  And as if that hadn't been enough, Pony'd been drunker than a rock.  

The shouting that had ensued had been too indecipherably to his fogged brain.  The alcohol had been doing his job, and at best, he was only half-heartedly listening to what was going on.  Quite honestly, he didn't care.  Darry could scream at him three tomorrows, and it wouldn't make much of a difference.  No one could, anymore.  Even Soda had lost his effect on him.  If there was anyone who could sway him, it was Tim, and that was only minimally.  

Yawning, Ponyboy shook his head detachedly about the entire scenario and scratched the side of his cheek.  Yes sir, it seemed a lot of people didn't agree with Dallas' philosophy.  Not that it mattered, no.  He was fine with it, and that was all that mattered.  Deftly, he worked open the last drawer of his desk, having to bend down a bit to do it, and pulled out a tattered letter.  A sour smile crossed his face.  Johnny's letter.  Pulling it open, he scanned its contents wearily before crumbling it in his fist and tossing it indifferently into a nearby trash can.  Yes, sir, staying hard was more important than anything else…and he wouldn't fail where Dallas had.  If there was one thing he wasn't willing to do, it was to love something that would result in his death.  Just like Dallas had done.  And, apart from that fact, he was just like Dallas.

*       *        *

A/N:  I like it…I mean, it's a different view on Ponyboy, yes, but it's a possible one.  He *does* turn dark near the end of the book, and the never say he changes back to the way he used to be.  *shrugs* just my insight, though.  I don't usually write Dally fics where he's dead, given the fact that I love him, but this one felt right.  ^_^ reviews are welcome!


End file.
